The Devil and the DMV
by TGBMcCray
Summary: Edward Cullen doesn't want to be back in Tennessee. He doesn't want the responsibility. Southern states are full of rules long forgotten and devils in disguise, and he's well aware of the cost of sinning. Has the man with the doomed soul met his match at the Department of Motor Vehicles?


**I don't own Twilight. **

**Mistakes are mine.**

All these born again Baptists who claim that hell exists not on earth but in a brimstone-laden pit of fire obviously never walked into the Blount County DMV. The greenest state in the land of the free may be known for its mountains, its lakes, and its whiskey, but there's nothing picturesque or delicious about this place.

I'd almost rather be in church. I shift on my ripped vinyl chair and let that thought sink in while I stare around a room thrown into stark relief by crappy florescent lighting. No, no not really. Even the DMV is better than church.

The old lady on my right wheezes through every breath. I should feel sorry for her. Just sitting down, she fights for air. Her gnarled fingers reach up to adjust the cannula under her nose every few minutes, and every time she does so, I find myself checking again to be sure I'm not sitting on the tubing that runs between our chairs to the rolling oxygen tank tucked under her legs. I'd be more apt to care about her if a pack of Pall Malls wasn't clearly visible in the top of the large, black old-woman handbag she's clutching in her lap. We live with the consequences of our sins, do we not?

The girl across the aisle from me looks supremely uninterested in one of her sins. She's texting on one of those old Razor phones that were so popular five or ten years ago while a baby I assume is hers squalls in a dirty infant carrier at her feet. The baby, from what I can tell from its flushed cheeks and matted hair, would likely be cute if it were clean, and you know, not wailing its head off. The blonde, who can't be older than seventeen, keeps right on texting while kicking the edge of the carrier with her foot. I think she's trying to rock the carrier. That, or she really is the worst mother in the world.

I stare at the little red number on the digital reader for a while. The paper slip I clutch in my hand is only two numbers above it, which likely means I will be in this wretched place at least another hour.

"Number fifty-five, please. Fifty-five." The chubby woman speaking into the microphone behind the counter upfront pronounces "five" the way Delta Burke did in reruns of Designing Women. Her mouth curls up when she says it, and it's so heavy on the middle vowel that I want to cover my ears. What am I doing here? What in the actual fuck am I doing back in this place?

Sixteen and no-longer pregnant picks up the carrier and tries to put a pacifier in the baby's mouth, which works about as well as you might expect it to work on an infant that pissed off. The plastic binky falls to the tile floor, but no matter. Mother-of-the-year retrieves it, sticks it back in the baby's face without so much as wiping it on her shorts, and flip-flops off to the counter.

I drop my head into my hands. Christ Jesus. I know we are not currently on speaking terms, but if you get me out of this place quickly, I will attempt to stop taking your name in vain every time gas goes up another cent. I swear it. Shit. Am I not supposed to say, "I swear?" Is that bad? Look, I mean it. Just deliver me from this torture quickly and I will go give that white trash mother enough money to buy three month's worth of baby shampoo at Target. Just get me out of here.

"Fifty-six?" Chubs is blinking out of her glasses at the four corners of humanity out here. "Fifty six?" She clears her throat and tries again, as though speaking more loudly to a room full of people with absolutely nothing else going on will make the owner of the wayward number materialize. "Number fifty-six, please?"

Nothing. I don't know where fifty-six has gone and I do not, in fact, care. I am next in line. Perhaps God has decided to spare me from this madness.

Obviously unsure what to do, chubs looks over to a plump clerk with white hair, shrugs her shoulders, and presses a button on top of a dusty black device that looks like an alarm clock. The red numerals on the overhead sign roll over, and I am out of my chair and halfway to the counter before she manages to get out, "Fifty-seven?"

I hand the white-haired clerk the clipboard with the forms for my driver's license application and force myself to smile. "Here you go," I say. "All filled out and ready to go."

The elderly woman in front of me should not be sitting behind this counter. She should be rocking on a front porch somewhere or making potholders in a nursing home. I have never seen anyone move this slowly.

Picking up the papers, she proceeds to type all of my information into the system. Each letter seems to echo as she hits the keyboard. I am growing old with her, standing here as she types. I'm about ten seconds away from ripping the Formica off the counter and beating myself in the head with it. Finally, after what seems like hours, she looks up. "Cullen, Edward M," she says. Her voice sounds rough, as though she doesn't use it that often. "New resident? Do you have your primary and secondary identification with you?"

Forcing another smile, I slide my current driver's license and birth certificate across the counter to her. "Here you are, ma'am."

The papery skin on her hands looks as though it might tear in two as she lifts them both close to her face before sliding my birth certificate back to me.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cullen, but these are both primary forms of identification. I need a secondary form." She picks up a print out beside her, shakily circles a row of type with a red pen, and hands it to me.

"Do you have any of these? Bank statement? Work ID? Social security card?"

This cannot be happening. "No, I do not. I haven't started work yet, and like most of the civilized world, I no longer receive paper bank statements. I also don't walk about with my social security card in my wallet. Identity theft is common enough without inviting the criminals into my life."

The woman raises snowy eyebrows at me. I decide to take a different tack. Leaning over the counter, I read her name off the white tag pinned to her flowery front pocket. "Listen, Elmira, I haven't been here that long. I haven't paid taxes here recently, I'm not in school, and I can't get my vehicle registration changed without a Tennessee license. Do you think you could just push this through? I'd really appreciate it."

Elmira smiles, which softens her entire face. She kind of favors my grandma, actually. "I understand, Mr. Cullen, but I'm afraid I can't do that. You'll just have to return with your social security card. I've already put you into the system, so it won't take very long."

"Will I have to wait in line again?"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Damn it! I don't have time for this. What is the big deal? I'm not a friggin' terrorist. I just want a driver's license!"

The old woman frowns and picks up the black-corded phone beside her. "Could you come out here a moment?" she says into the mouthpiece.

I wait, tapping my foot impatiently. Hopefully she's getting someone out here that can override this ridiculous system and put an end to this horror.

A brunette emerges from a doorway at the end of the line of clerks; walking so silently that I would not have heard her if my head were turned away. She strides up to Elmira, her long ponytail swinging behind her, as she steps. I don't mean to lick my lips, but it's reactionary. This woman is exquisite. Even in the shitty lighting, her skin glows pure and white. Her mouth, slicked with a deep shade of red lipstick, almost draws my attention away from her dark eyes, but only just. They are brown to the point of blackness and rimmed with black lashes and smooth white eyelids.

"Is there a problem, here?" When she addresses me, her voice shocks me. It's not girlish and light, as she appears, but contralto and a bit tough. It suits her, though.

"No, there's no problem, Miss. Elmira and I were just discussing the fact that I forgot to bring my social security card today. I really need to get my license, though. Is that something you can help me with, Miss –"

Brunette with the promising lips ignores my request for her name. She's not wearing a name badge either. Damn it.

"No, I'm afraid it's not, Mr. – " She lifts my license from the counter. "Cullen. You must produce an acceptable form of secondary identification in order to secure a driver's license for the state of Tennessee."

"But I didn't bring any of that, Miss. Isn't there any way we can work this out?"

Alice would smack me for it, but I pull out the charm, flashing Brunette my best panty-dropping smile and racking my fingers through my mop of hair. It's too long. I need to get it trimmed, but Alice swears the women love it this way. God, I hope she's right.

Brunette stares at me with those dark eyes flashing. I watch her draw a breath, then two, both long and deep as though steadying herself. Her lips quirk and I've got her. I can tell. A flush is working its way up the column of her white neck, contrasting with the slim navy dress she's wearing. I want to wrap my fingers there, to feel her heart beating against my hand. Say yes, sweetheart. I repay every favor handsomely, I assure you.

Small lady-like fingers retrieve my license from in front of Elmira again. She lifts it, reads, and smiles as she hands it back to me.

"Of course, Mr. Cullen. I don't know how things work in Washington, D.C., but here we follow the rules of our state. You come back with one of the items on the list Elmira has already given you, and I will be happy to process your driver's license application."

She's smirking at me. I swear to God, she's smirking.

"Now – can you show yourself out or would you like me to call the police so that they may do it for you?"

Realizing that my mouth is hanging open, I close it with a snap. "That won't be necessary, Miss. I know the way."

"Excellent. Have a lovely day."

She pats Elmira on the shoulder and moves behind the rows of chairs, heading back to the same doorway she appeared through.

My eyes follow her taut little body as she walks away, admiring the curve of her ass and the nip of her waist despite myself. Her ponytail swings back and forth as she walks, accenting the curve of her shoulders in the sleeveless dress. The backs of her legs, milk-white, look as soft as cream.

She's nearly out of sight as my eyes make it all the way down to her shoes. She's wearing low-top navy blue Chuck Taylors. Then she's gone, disappeared through the doorway, and Elmira is motioning for Chubs to call the next number.

This is what I get in answer to a prayer – screwed by a devil in a blue dress at the DMV.

**So, there you go. I hope you like it so far. ****If you do, maybe you could review? If it sucked, hit me with that, too. I'm Southern. I can take it. **


End file.
